


Something Perfect in Coloured Lights

by PrinceVenus



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, M/M, caspar might have a stripper kink, side troyler
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7910593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceVenus/pseuds/PrinceVenus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caspar's pretty sure he doesn't he doesn't have a stripper kink.</p><p>Pretty sure.</p><p>--</p><p>Caspar's workplace of one and a half years decides to celebrate an "enormous" contract landed with a night out - at a strip club. Caspar's been to his fair share, during his friends' crazed university adventures, but nothing like this one. It's co-ed, and has a few choice words Caspar might associate with it - sleezy, overpriced, /personal/.</p><p>Joe's a dancer, has been ever since he was picked off the streets back four years ago. He's just one cog in the large illegal prostitution ring: one floor strip club, other floor brothel. He doesn't see the outside world; he's limited to the pole where he earns his pocket money, and the bed where he earns his right to keep living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Caspar's 90% sure his company is a part-time dealer in illegal substances.

Not that he has bountiful experience in drugs or company sales, but he's not ignorant enough to believe that a company with a near-constant downward trend of income and such an _eccentric_ subset of merchandise has lasted this long purely on luck.

He's just tucking away the graphs for last month's business in the backroom filing cabinet when he feels the heavy hand grip his shoulder, and has to stifle a shudder.

"Boy, you look like you need some fun," says the greasy familiar voice, and Caspar slowly rolls the cabinet drawer shut.

"Excuse me?" he responds, when the hand doesn't disappear, and twists his head to look up at the man. Caspar recognises him, how can he not? Still, in over a year of working in this godforsaken building, Caspar still hasn't quite managed to pick up his name – he prefers the term _Sweaty_ anyway. Slightly overweight, unshaven, disgusting is all he's got to work with; not to mention that damned leery smile that makes Caspar consider quitting then and there every single time.

He can't, of course, because he's not sure how he even managed to get a job in sales and marketing when he dropped out of college before the first year was even done – and he's not prepared to take his chances again, and possibly end up with yet another job in a shady downtown bar.

"You know we got tha' contract with the Asians, those fucking bastards," Sweaty drawls, clamping his hand down harder as he spits out the word. Caspar doesn't really want to ask what happened to make the man so entirely against anyone who's not white – he's mosetly afraid there'll be no reason at all.

"Yeah, and?" Caspar provokes, dropping his shoulder until Sweaty is forced to let go. Even from this far away, Caspar can smell the stale scent of cigarette smoke and the faintest whiff of the company's line in men's cologne. He tries not to gag.

"Well, a few of us men are goin' out to drink and I figured you might wanna join us."

Caspar blinks once, twice, because there's absolutely nothing in this man's tone that says he can reject the offer. It's not like there is any difference in hierarchy between them; Sweaty isn't anything special like _manager_ , but Caspar also knows that he needs to not anger the (literal) big guys unless he wants to be at the wrong end of all their petty hatred.

The deal itself that they seem to be celebrating is nothing special either. A mere change in location of production, from Thailand (where workers are paid terribly and work in horrible conditions) to China (where workers are paid even worse, and work in conditions that could kill – on a wage that _still_ doesn't feed their families); all in the name of saving a few cents.

"Whadd'ya say?" Sweaty prods, words tumbling out of his mouth like it's costing him big-time to actually use his tongue for enunciation.

"I'd _love_ to," Caspar begins, smiling with his best look of _innocent gratitude_ , "but-"

"Great!" he buts in, grabbing Caspar's bare arm with a clammy grip. "Bus is outside, we're going now. Dave said company's gonna pay for our shit."

And that's how Caspar finds himself on an old bus that smells even worse than the near stranger from the floor below crammed next to him, bumping through the city into the darker parts of downtown Los Angeles.

He's staring out the window, trying to ignore the conversation his co-workers are having behind him, and failing miserably.

("-and then she yells at me, because I don't do enough around the house! She said she even been faking orgasms just so she can stop, that bitch."

"Did'ja tell her that's ain't your bloody problem? Women, god, they're only good for a fuck til'ya marry 'em.")

Caspar kind of wishes he'd thought to bring his earphones, kind of wishes he was dead.

He also wishes he hadn't been looking outside when they finally, _finally_ , pull up at their destination with a ruckus that makes Caspar believe the bus won't be running again any time soon.

A strip club, a fucking god damn _strip club_ , and they expected him to believe work was actually okay paying for this?

There's several raunchily dressed women outside, smoking and calling comments about the men stepping off the bus. Caspar only ducks his head, letting his hair fall down until it covered his eyes – and the utter horror coursing through his entire body.

Not to say he hadn't been to such an _establishment_ before, no. His friends were all college students still, and there was no chance they were leaving Caspar's drop-out ass behind when they ventured out on drunken adventures.

It was just usually a little classier than this.

Inside was much the same as outside, and Caspar didn't really know what he expected. It wasn't packed like some of the clubs Caspar had seen in his time, but it did smell of nothing but sex and liquor.

Disgustingly so.

The club itself was seemingly split into sections, each walled off part containing a single stage of some description, and each sporting its own style of music – which all came together in a single howling cacophony from where Caspar was standing.

This place was not, apparently, unknown to Caspar's colleagues, who were already busying themselves with the tiny bar tucked in the corner, or disappearing to stages with a speed that belied their raw _excitement_.

Caspar really, really wants to be dead right now.

The men filling the club are mostly old _,_ the kind of age you'd expect to have a steady job and two kids. Caspar doesn't doubt that at least half of the customers here are married at least, or participating in some kind of sickening mid-life crisis.

Caspar steps to the side once he realises he's alone, moving into the first of the sectioned off areas, and finds the music dying down to a single song almost immediately. It feels slightly better, and helps to stall the headache he can already feel developing in his temples.

The song itself, though, is entirely unknown – and not just because Caspar doesn't listen to pop radio all that much anymore. No, this music is in an entirely _different language._

There's three women on stage, wearing identical dresses, and performing an equally identical dance that involves one too many drops to the floor to be considered anything near _just playful_.

The dancers themselves are of Asian descent, and sporting cat ears as they run hands up thighs in unison, curling their hands into paws when the music _meowed_. They're smiling, swaying their hips and bending over like they're here to sell their bodies to these men who are at least double their age.

Caspar doesn't want to think about what that means for these young girls, bearing the brunt of the dirty remarks with innocent smiles and wide eyes, and he retreats out of there as fast as he can.

The space next door is quieter, and it only takes Caspar a second to realise that the people are flooding _out_ , not _in_. There's no music playing, and the lights re dimmed – this stage clearly isn't being used right now.

Caspar takes the brief respite to stare at the stage in confusion; it looks nothing like the previous, now being adorned with heavy red curtains, and a curling set of stairs on one side that lead down from an ancient looking door.

Nothing like the bouncy mess next door, but Caspar doesn't bother hanging around to find out why.

The thin crowd is pushing him roughly towards the room tucked opposite the main entry, and Caspar is _far_ too emotionally tired to fight it. He'll just sit still until the men stop yelling and pushing so much, and then he's _so_ ready to get out of here.

He isn't even sure if _girls_ are his thing, why the hell would he consider staying in a heterosexual club where the dancers are as mistreated as the homeless citizens down the road?

He squeezes into the room of main interest, ducking through the archway, and rolls his eyes at the cliché set-up before him. Not that he's overly intuitive about strippers and their routines, but surely there's something more interesting to all these customers than a simple _pole dance._

The lights dim, a heavy beat spring up, and Caspar sighs in recognition. He isn't entirely familiar with the song's lyrics, but the tune is popular enough to recall easily.

Caspar isn't sure why he feels oddly comforted by something that isn't tied to his lifestyle at all, but maybe it's just the escape from a crowd of drunken men screaming about a young girl's assets.

As the guitar-played melody rings out for _Do I Wanna Know_ , a song that Josh must've played around the apartment at least once or twice, a dark-dressed individual struts out onto the stage from within fluttering black curtains.

And Caspar is _star struck_.

In his defence, he hadn't realised this was a co-ed strip club, and there were male dancers who were _fucking attractive as all hell_.

By this time, the lyrics had already started, and Caspar's new (only) favourite had begun his dance that has a chorus of _oh no_ on repeat in Caspar's head.

One leg hooked around the pole, his body arching back as he spins on the spot, and all Caspar can think is that he has absolutely no cash on him, and this man deserves every single dollar.

Black jeans, black tank top, black hat, black _soul_ as he quite literally traps Caspar into watching his rhythmic dips and twirls, lights glistening off skin that looks just a little sparkly. The chorus breaks, the man's in the air, and Caspar is actually dead.

Of course, this is also when he's fiercely reminded that he's not the only one watching, and he certainly doesn't deserve to be anywhere nearby when all the other audience members are actually paying.

The reality of the moment sinks in just a little, and Caspar's mouth tastes like bile as one man shouts something extremely inappropriate, and another throws an opened condom on the stage. The performer just takes it all in stride, even going as far as to wink at the man front and centre (who Caspar swears, by the bald head and wrinkled arms, is at least 60).

The song shifts into a different tempo as the man pauses, reaching down to take a swig of the water by his feet – and god, Caspar's in too deep, because how can an action like _that_ still be undeniably sexy?

Caspar doesn't recognise the next song, but he stays anyway, because damn it _he's enjoying himself_. Nothing like the pigs around him, and he makes a desperate note to take a shower when he gets home because that man next to him is definitely rubbing his crotch in a less-than-appropriate way.

There's a hand tapping his back, mid-song, and Caspar almost wants to hit the man he whirls around to find behind him for interrupting such a moment.

It's Sweaty and he's smiling that _smile,_ like he's got some great surprise that Caspar's simply going to adore.

He hopes to god this man knows what he's taking Caspar away from, as he's pulled by the arm out of the stage area and towards the corner of the building, where there's an open door and a staircase tucked away neatly, illuminated barely by a flickering red light.

Caspar tries to resist, just a little, but finds despite the man's sweaty grip, there's no levering him away from Caspar's arm. And so, he's led up the stairs, tripping on several in the dim light, and welcomed into a room of roughly ten other men, all lounging about on sofas with drinks in hand.

Caspar's never felt more out of depth in his life, and that's saying something.

Caspar decides then and there that he's going to punch Sweaty square in the face, because now he's stuck in an awkward room full of men who are all aroused to some state, and it makes Caspar feel so nauseous that he seriously considers running from the room then and there.

He's decided he's going to quit tomorrow morning.

(A _Thursday_ , because it was someone's grand idea to go out to a strip club on a _fucking Wednesday night_.)

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the first distorted words boom out over the crappy speaker system, Joe steps up, hooks his leg in a front attitude, spins, falls. He follows through, feels his thighs burn as he drops in what's supposed to be a sexy move – and judging by the increase in volume of the audience, it's working.
> 
> He throws a sultry glance over his shoulder as he leaps up again, never making the rookie mistake of searching the crowd. On a night like this particularly, he just can't afford it.

"You're looking dressed up," Troye comments blandly from the background, startling Joe much less than it should. The only reason it really surprises him at all is the fact that Troye's even _awake_ at this hour.

"What's with you, got a shift tonight or something?" Joe asks, completely ignoring Troye's original remark as the offender stumbles clumsily into the room – and yet still, in the reflection of the mirror Joe's positioned before, Troye looks as graceful as if he _meant_ to trip over that extension cord.

The only answer is the sharp _snap_ of a bubble bursting, as Troye scuffs up beside Joe at the dresser. Cherry flavoured bubblegum, from what Joe can tell.

"You're on double tonight, aren't you?" Troye asks, reaching up with delicate fingers to skim over Joe's sides, pressing the loose black tank flat against his ribs.

Joe rolls his eyes, letting out a breath of pain because _yes, why would Troye remind him of his terrible fate_.

Troye hums lightly, nudging at Joe's arms until he lifts them to eye level, and tugging down on the top from the bottom seams. "You need something," he mumbles, sliding a flat palm over Joe's stomach. "It's too solid."

Joe shrugs, eyes meeting Troye's briefly in the mirror. "I didn't think it was right, but I didn't know what else to do."

Troye hums, blowing yet _another_ pink bubble between his lips. "This is my old shirt, right?" he asks, leaning down to rest his head on Joe's shoulder. "I used to do it with leggings."

Joe shakes his head, tapping his nails against the dirty wood of the table in front of him. "No, I thought about that, but I don't think I can pull it off."

"You could," Troye responds distantly, frowning ever so slightly – although Joe's not sure if it's the conversation or the costume that's got him thinking.

"Besides," Joe begins, slapping his hand flat against the table and leaning forward. "I'm playing the bad guy tonight, leggings are for you twinks and _actual_ dancers."

Before Joe can register Troye's motives, he's already twisted his head and bit Joe's ear, withdrawing like a snake straight after.

"Hey!"

"Come here," Troye gestures, barely waiting for Joe to move before he's grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around. "I know what you need."

Ten seconds later, Troye's managed to rip a large gash into the side of the plain sleeveless shirt, revealing soft tan skin underneath in a way that _just_ _looks right_.

"How the fuck do you..."Joe trails, fingering the rip with his mouth twisted.

"Magic," Troye answers, as he always does – because Troye knowing what's right is never a new thing around here. "Eyes up."

Joe does as commanded, letting Troye poke at his lids with a black pencil, using the dresser behind him as support. "Double shift tonight, _and_ I'm working the poles last before 9."

Troye hums in acknowledgement. "Life's hard."  
  
"I don't even get to have a shower in between shifts."

Troye pops another bubble, expression far from sympathetic. "I'm sure you'll survive."

Joe would cross his arms if he wasn't using the to stay upright against the desk. "And I suppose you'll just go back to sleep after I'm done."

Troye draws back, capping the eyeliner in a single motion without ever removing his eyes from Joe's face. Joe puts the relaxed movement down to far too much experience in dressing up the newbies, but he doesn't want to linger on that thought too long. "No, I just _love_ listening to the sounds of you having sex," Troye says with so much sarcasm it almost hurts.

Would hurt, if Joe hadn't already spent four years becoming accustomed to it.

"You're done," Troye states, dusting his hands and shoving the stick of black eyeliner back into the pocket of his hoodie. "Go get 'em, son."

"Thanks dad," Joe snips back, giving himself one more glance in the mirror before scooping up his hat and leaving the dressing room.

Tonight, despite the forever dreaded _double shift,_ is probably going to be one of his easier nights in a long while. As much as he complains, he doesn't mind the poles much; they give him something to work with, instead one of those dances without any props at all. And the added benefit of a character perception that he can actually _identify_ with certainly helps.

Except it's constantly lingering in his mind, the knowledge that it never really gets any better than this.

He waves to Coffee as they pass on the stairs, tucking his hat on his head with a smile. No one knows Coffee's real name, and it was probably easier to remember him as the drink anyway.

It was a dead reminder that Joe still had yet to learn the dance for the K-stage, when he'd (stupidly) accepted to take Coffee's shift in a month's time.

(Admittedly, that was a long while away, but Joe wasn't confident at all in his ability to pass as a damned Korean boy-band member. Not in front of all those people who came to fantasise about and objectify _actual_ cute boys.)

He barely makes it to the stage before Kat's final song is ending, and she's pushing her way out through the curtains with beads of sweat running down her forehead.

Joe opts for just another smile before he heads out, but Kat catches his arm and gives him a stern look.

"It's a _rough crowd_ tonight, do your best," she mutters, glancing towards the burly man overseeing the backstage area. She offers a smile grin, before sweeping away and leaving Joe feeling worse than he had in a long while.

Hard crowd is key for something Joe, and likely everyone living in this building, absolutely dreads. It meant there were people out there who _mattered_ , who weren't just any old disgusting men; whether it was because of money or status, or something unknown.

Impressing the important people was _always_ fun. It's not like disappointing them weakened club profits for the month, and that meant harsh punishment, oh _no_.

Joe can hear the growl of the audience as the music dies down entirely, and it's clear there's really no time to hold on to such thoughts. The lights would only be out for thirty seconds on a good night, and judging by the twisted expression on Kat's face as she'd walked off, tonight is _not_ a good night.

Joe slips out between the gaps in the heavy back-curtain, halting just behind the wispy sheer material that is meant to _sensual_. In reality, this second layer of curtain is rough and uncomfortable to move through, but it's not like that matters much anyway.

Joe's barely caught his breath before the music strikes, the song he'd numbered out first for tonight's routine – and wow, whoever's manning the control board tonight is really not having any of it.

Heavy drums, wait four beats, and then Joe's stepping through the curtains and his mind is blank but for everything he revised today during his time at the pole.

Pole dancing, at first, had been an absolute _no_ for eighteen-year-old Joe: until he discovered that no wasn't a word in his vocabulary in this business, and he was going to be twirling seductively around a stick whether he liked it or not.

He's still thankful that Troye even gave him a second glance that one time – lord knows what kind of grave Joe would be buried in now if he hadn't had that extra help.

He's circling around the pole now, arm raised and eyes shut, because he's rehearsed this _too many times to get it wrong_.

When the first distorted words boom out over the crappy speaker system, Joe steps up, hooks his leg in a _front attitude,_ spins, falls. He follows through, feels his thighs burn as he drops in what's supposed to be a sexy move – and judging by the increase in volume of the audience, it's working.

He throws a sultry glance over his shoulder as he leaps up again, never making the rookie mistake of searching the crowd. On a night like this particularly, he just can't afford it.

He can already feel his hat slipping from his head as he moves into his next pose, and instantly regrets not asking for Troye to somehow clip it onto his head. Losing pieces of his costume is okay, as long as he can make it look genuine enough to quite literally arouse the crowd.

And of course, if he can retrieve it before the end of his set. Because that hat cost him more than he's willing to throw around wildly.

He can feel his shirt lifting when he drops to the ground again, uses it to his advantage. Runs one hand up his chest until the top is rising because _he_ wants it to, and uses his other hand to press flat against the top of his hat.

_Secure again._

He doesn't need to consciously remember the bruise on his left side ribs, but lets the tank top return to it's place before the discolouring is revealed. Doesn't need to remind himself to bite his lips and tilt his head back; he's too far into this career of _performance_ to allow his mind to be clouded with such things. It either happens, or it doesn't and he's reprimanded for it later.

His show tonight is odd, but he enjoys it. To show a character like he's been assigned, he needs to have some degree of _masculine finality_ , but on the very same scale, he's also required by rule to be submissive to the crowd's desire.

He can remember the first time he had that _conversation_ with Kat. She's the resident _keep-everyone-alive_ leader, and so it was only right that she be the one to pull Joe aside and explain the concept of drawing in business.

No one wants a sex doll that bites back.

Even tonight, after the set, he needs to remember to remain property, never letting his character get the best of him and take over what should be clear submission to his _guest_.

So when the chorus breaks for the second time, he drops to ground with legs bent on either side of the pole, running his hands up and displaying his body like it's the only thing keeping him out of the ground.

And when the audience cheers, and he can pick out the unoriginal, _predictable_ vulgar comments, Joe only licks his lips and does his best impression of a man who's only purpose is to crave rough sex from a stranger.

Because that's what he does.

 

 

"You look dead," Troye comments lamely, not even bothering to look up from his phone where he's sprawled across the couch.

"Thanks dear, love you too," Joe answers drily, snatching the towel from the back of the sofa and wiping it across his face, careful not to touch his eyes. He knows Troye brought it out specifically from Joe's room, knows that Troye does actually care enough to understand the last thing Joe wants to be doing is running back to his room in the five minutes spare he gets. But he doesn't say anything, because they're relationship has never been like that, and why start now?  
  
Troye is dressed in tight jeans and a white shirt, hair done up nicely and a pair of twin chain bracelets around his wrists. It's obvious, as Troye pushes himself up to join Joe in the short line of men and women alike pressed to the wall, that it's not a night off for either of them.

Joe wets his lips, tugging on Troye's shirt in front of him, as they wait for the small buzz and the click of the door opening into the guest lounge. Troye doesn't make any acknowledgement towards feeling the movement, but that's exactly what Joe wants. They've been doing this too long to get caught.

"Kat says there's a rough crowd out there tonight."

Joe barely hears the muttered expletive before the black door is clicking open, and the line of ten, maybe fifteen, people are moving forward and out into the dim lights of the presentation stage.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You see somethin’ you like, eh?” Sweaty jeers, knocking his elbow against Caspar again with the most disgusting expression Caspar’s ever seen in his life, topping even Josh’s best efforts. “It’s all on the house t’night, you know boy. Pick ya favourite.”
> 
> Caspar stalls. This man, this overweight sexist animal has the right to tell Caspar to pick his favourite person to be a sex doll for the night?
> 
> Fuck his job.

It doesn’t take Caspar long to figure out why the club is filled with the people it is. Takes him even less time to realise that he’s part of that crowd now. And then it’s a millisecond on top of that to recognise the dancer, _his_ dancer, on that very same platform.

It probably clicked when one of Caspar’s co-workers – the only “guests” in the room– switched out the frown for a greasy smile, and quite literally _selected_ a girl in fishnet tights from the raised platform. She was practically hanging from his shoulder as they departed through a black door, and Caspar’s stomach dropped the instant the door clicked shut quietly behind them.

Now he’s standing in a thinning group, and the inadequately dressed dancers (or otherwise?) are growing less in number, but still he can’t drag his eyes from the one body in the room who really _doesn’t deserve to be here_.

Which is an entire lie, Caspar realises, as a tall lanky boy sashays down from the platform, biting his lip at the man who, during the daylight hours, works two desks over from Caspar. None of these people deserved to be on display here, but maybe hard times call for desperate measures.

(He doesn’t really want to believe they’re here of their own accord, doesn’t want to admit that they are the quintessential sex worker.)

Caspar considers leaving for a second, but a brief one at that because in the same moment, his dancer has finally met Caspar’s gaze, and he’s had the very audacity to _wink_ at him.

Caspar stifles a groan, barely catches his thumb before it reaches his mouth, because damn is he anxious to be here. The panic rises when his dancer won’t break eye contact, sucking in a lip and raising an eyebrow in Caspar’s direction. They both know what he’s asking for, but Caspar’s one hundred percent sure he’s not here for that.

There’s a shove from his side, and Caspar’s forced to turn away first to look at the man next to him – _Sweaty_.

“You see somethin’ you like, eh?” he jeers, knocking his elbow against Caspar again with the most disgusting expression Caspar’s ever seen in his life, topping even Josh’s best efforts. “It’s all on the house t’night, you know boy. Pick ya favourite.”

Caspar blinks once, twice, three times before he even registers Sweaty’s words, let alone actually devising a response. This man, this overweight sexist _animal_ has the right to tell Caspar to _pick his favourite person_ to be a _sex doll_ for the night?

Caspar’s opening his mouth for a sarcastic retort, but Sweaty beats him to it, chuckling a little. “Better be quick about it boy, all the good ‘uns will be gone soon,” he says with the air of a person who’s been here enough to understand how it works, and as much of a nod towards the stage as he can muster with his rolls of chin fat.

_Horrified_ is the new official word of the day for Caspar, because he’s not sure whether he’s meant to be so upset that his dancer, _his_ dancer, is stepping down from the stage to whisper into a shorter man’s ear with a smirk, tugging at his jacket like the man is the most attractive thing he’s ever seen.

The bile in his throat only rises when Caspar meets sharp blue eyes, fierce with unanswered questions, taunting as they slide over Caspar’s apparently unfitting choice of dress for the day. _Why didn’t you make your move first?_

Caspar swallows harshly, and the dancer turns away, guiding his new interest through the single door and away from Caspar’s lingering gaze.

_Fuck._

 

 

 

When he gets home that night, Caspar ignores Josh’s concerned questions, shutting himself in his room and shoving a pair of headphones in his ears. There’s no music that’s loud enough to shut up the images of things happening in rooms far from here, but it’s easy to pretend.

 

 

 

“Bad luck,” Josh chuckles the next morning, clapping Caspar over the shoulder as he passes. “Still think you should come out with me and the boys on Friday, get your mind off your new _lover_.”

“Fuck off,” Caspar mumbles, pulling away. “I’m not in love.”

He’s the very picture of it though, head in his hands and slouched on the stained old sofa chair that had come with the apartment. When there’s no response but for a loud crash from the general direction of the kitchen, Caspar slumps forward, tucking his face into his knees.

He’d planned to keep it from Josh, of course – but the dark circles under his eyes had led from one thing to another, and here they were. Caspar hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep last night; he told Josh it was because he was still used to the loud music of the club, but that was hardly the reason they both believed.

The man was a _stripper,_ for god’s sake. It was his job to tantalise, to sexualise every movement. His wage came from desperate idiots like Caspar who sought connection where there was none, because those were the kinds of people who kept coming back.

And still, Caspar couldn’t stop the images drifting in and out of his head, presenting themselves in startling clarity, because really - what’s a boy Caspar’s age doing with a man old enough to have _grandchildren_?

“Class starts in a few, so I gotta go, but I’ll do the shopping tonight, yeah?” Josh calls from the kitchen, accompanied with another predictable crash. “Need anything in particular?”

_A life._

“Nah man, I’m all set. Just milk, I think it’s gone off.”

There’s a gag, and then another slap on Caspar’s shoulder. “Dude, I fucking drank that this morning, why didn’t you throw it out?”

It’s not a question that needs a response, and Caspar provides none. He really ought to get dressed for work – it starts in little under half an hour – but he really does not think he can look his fellow workers in the eye today.

Josh calls out a final ‘goodbye’ ( _“take a shower you dick, you stink”_ ), and the front door slams shut, leaving Caspar alone with his thoughts yet again.

_Fuck silence._

 

 

 

No one, _not a single person_ , mentions the night before when Caspar arrives at work an hour later. Sweaty is at his desk, playing a video game that looks remarkably similar to strip solitaire, but maybe that’s just Caspar looking for an excuse to glare. He certainly has a reason to hate the man next to Sweaty though, giving (not so) helpful hints about the game.

Caspar has to physically hold back a shudder at the thought of his beautiful dancer going down on that compressed ball of ugly. If Caspar weren’t the near-sole provider for the household, he’d very seriously consider throwing a series of very specific punches.

But he needs this job, and Josh needs this job, because god knows neither of them have the skills to find actual paying careers. It was luck this company would even hire someone like Caspar, even as low of a business it was.

Instead, he barely returns the smiles he gets from the pair, striding past to slide into his uncomfortable desk chair and jabbing a finger into the ancient computer system to start it up.

_Fuck work_.

 

 

 

So when it comes to late Friday afternoon, and there’s been no solution to Caspar’s moping, it’s entirely fair for Josh to be forcing Caspar into a clean shirt and jeans, literally pushing him out the front door with a growl.

( _You_ will _enjoy your Friday, Caspar Lee!_ )

 

 

 

It’s not Josh’s friends – they’re easy to get along with – and it’s not the bar of choice – which is nice enough – but when Caspar finally excuses himself to the bathroom, and checks his phone to find that it’s only 6:45, he can only groan.

It’s probably the way he’s been mulling an idea over in his head all night, the way it’s literally eating him alive. A combination of the too-sweet drinks Josh has been generously buying for him, and the knowledge that the strip club opens at 7.

The idea has solidified itself by the time he’s left the bathroom, and by the way Josh looks at him, he knows it too. Caspar had begrudgingly come out tonight because he needed the distraction, but he was also pretty sure Josh had seen him google searching for opening times this morning – so at least they both know it was a lost cause from the beginning. Caspar was just less prepared to accept it until now.

“I’m feeling a bit ill, guys, I’m gonna head home,” Caspar announces when he arrives back at the table, to a chorus of tipsy laughter. Josh is eyeing him with a weird smirk, but it’s mostly just teasing grins – can Caspar not handle his drinks anymore? What a _lightweight_.

If only they knew.

Josh salutes him off, and Caspar bows mockingly before backing out, mind entirely on the mission before him and the (metaphorical) weight of the credit card in his pocket.

It’s a poorly formed mission that has no plan to back it up beyond _find the dancer_.


End file.
